Leaning Forward Into a Question

Leaning forward into a question mark

of sunshine through a February window

and backed by the shadow she makes behind her

on shelves of this and that that she has done,

she has forgotten the question.

 

Once it seemed easier to get up into the morning,

wash and dress, and wait for the bones to heal.

Once she wasn’t waiting for the corners of the walls

to come together or doors to appear, waiting

for windows that aren’t mirrors, or waiting

for moments that are beds she can get out of.

Once she wasn’t waiting to speak and recognize

her own voice say, “This is so!” and believe it.

Once she could see the world instead of think it.

But now everything seems curled back on itself

like a mind run over that’s unable to reach

or a hand that forgets the way out of a pocket

or a foot that sees anywhere to step is wrong.

 

And the quandaries still come round and round

until her signature twists into a question mark

and she is merely punctuation.

 

John Graber

 

 

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